


If You Show Me Yours

by jonnyhustle



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blackhawks, Hockey Player Jonny, M/M, Meet-Cute, Misunderstandings, National Hockey League, Patrick Sharp Is a Troll, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 15:14:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3451898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonnyhustle/pseuds/jonnyhustle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: “I sent a selfie of myself in the tub to the wrong number and you responded back with another selfie. Holy shit you’re really attractive.”</p><p>  <i>He’s torn between walking home and catching a cab, but decides to walk when the pain refuses to dissipate. He does not want to face a cab driver when he’s unable to sit still without being in pain. He does not need those rumours circulating in the media, thank you very much. </i></p><p>  <i>He curses under his breath, pulling his phone out of his pocket to text Sharpy.</i></p><p>  <i>“You fucking broke my ass, you dick,” he types, angrily stabbing at the letters.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Show Me Yours

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt taken from [toxixpumpkin](http://toxixpumpkin.tumblr.com/post/101021230029/awkward-first-meetings-aus)'s list. 
> 
> Any comments/thoughts would be very much appreciated, as are any prompts you want to see filled. 
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr [here](http://toestoewstazer.tumblr.com). I just really want to talk about [this picture of Patrick Kane](http://toestoewstazer.tumblr.com/post/112220149117/hastpolo-gustav-favorite-picture-of-patrick-kane).

Jonny’s more comfortable when he’s wearing skates than when he’s walking on his own two feet. He’s been like that for most of his life, spending hour upon hour on the ice every winter until he was at risk of it cracking beneath his feet. It’s for this reason that he rarely falls any more. 

If he’s anticipating a hit he knows he can hold his own, will hold his own. 

So, it’s a surprise when Sharpy checks him, seemingly coming out of nowhere, and Jonny goes down hard. Jonny doesn’t just go down by himself though, even if he didn’t see Sharpy until the absolute last second, he still manages to reach out and drag his A down with him.

He lands with his right foot beneath his left thigh, and for a second he can’t feel anything. 

Then, the pain hits him. 

“Fuck,” he curses, hears the sentiment echoed beside him as Sharpy tries to untangle himself from the two-man heap they’ve fallen in.

Jonny waits until Sharpy’s done before he sits up, checking for any cuts in the material of his pants, any sign that he’s gotten nicked by his skates. 

He lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding when he can’t find anything. 

He tries to catalogue himself for injuries, now that the initial panic of having been cut is gone, and thinks he’s fine. He hasn’t broken a bone since he was a kid, but he still remembers the feeling he got deep in his gut. 

He doesn’t have that now, he realises with relief. 

“You’re a fucking dick,” he says, turning to Sharpy who thankfully looks just as free from injuries. 

Jonny’s a bit bitter over it still, if he’s being honest. 

“Someone needs to keep you on your toes, Toes,” Sharpy says, struggling to keep a straight face. 

Jonny just rolls his eyes, reaching out to push Sharpy further away. He doesn’t put too much strength into though, doesn’t do it as hard as Sharpy, because he’s not a moron. 

Just like Jonny did, Sharpy would drag him down too if he actually fell.

They finish practice without any further incidents. Sharpy keeps his hands to himself, except for when it’s justified, and Jonny doesn’t have to remind him that they’re playing on the same fucking side here. 

There’s a steady ache running through his body when they wind the session up, but it’s nothing new. He likes the feeling of it, even if his left leg aches more than it should. 

He doesn’t actually look to assess the damage until he’s showering, tries to stretch his leg in a way that it simply won’t to see if there are any cuts or swelling. 

There’s nothing he can see, but still calls Sharpy over to take a look at it anyway. 

And, really, there’s no way he can do it in a dignified manner. His hands are spread out trying to cover everything from his junk to his crack, even though him and Sharpy have been sharing locker rooms for years and could probably point out each other’s dicks in a line-up.

Sharpy says, “you look good, man, but you know I’m with Abby,” as if he’s trying to let Jonny down nicely. 

Jonny punches him in the shoulder, can’t hold back on the impulse even though it means removing one of the barriers between his naked body and Sharpy’s eye line. 

“Seriously, there’s nothing there,” Sharpy says, “maybe a little bruising.” 

“Maybe?” Jonny questions. 

“Do you really want me to take a closer look?” and, well, he has a point. 

Jonny considers, before saying, “I’m good, thanks. What about you? You hit the ice pretty hard too, man.”

“Is that your way of asking to see all this,” Sharpy says, gesturing to himself where he’s standing in nothing but a towel. 

Jonny groans, “Go home, man. I’ll see you later.”

Jonny finishes up his shower, still spending more time poking the top of his thigh and left ass cheek than he does actually showering himself. He’s the last out of the showers, and each of his teammates shoot him a look that makes him stop.

“Oh no,” he says aloud, realising what they’re thinking, “I wasn’t jerking off!” 

He just wants to make it clear before any of the guys can make their accusations vocal. 

For the most part they just avert their gaze, Crow snorts and Shawzy mutters something under his breath that Jonny doesn’t hear. He can feel his cheeks growing red, feels as if his face is burning as he moves to his locker and shucks on the spare change of clothes he has with him. 

“How about dinner?” someone asks, Jonny doesn’t hear who but agrees nonetheless. 

He’s always been one to make an effort with the team, has always taken his duties seriously both on and off the ice. Always immediately takes his teammates up on their invites even when past history shows that he should at least question what he’s agreeing to. 

They don’t go anywhere fancy, just a diner down the road, and there’s few enough of them that they don’t get looked at twice. There have been a couple of team outings where they only draw attention to themselves because of the sheer number of them, because they all try to speak over one another to finish a story that they all already know anyway because they were literally all present for it.

It’s more of a quiet affair this time, and Jonny’s glad for it. His leg is still hurting, and when he sits in the booth he has to roll to his right side to alleviate some of the pressure.

They eat their meals, Jonny turning a blind eye when each of the guys, without fail, order something that is not within their approved diet plan. 

“So, what’s on tonight?” Shawzy asks, talking with a mouthful of food. 

Saader throws a fry at him, frowning when Shawzy catches that in his mouth too. 

“Hey, do you like seafood?” Shawzy asks, opening his mouth even wider in Saader’s face before anyone has a chance to answer. 

Around the table, the rest of the guys groan and Jonny begins making his excuses to leave. He doesn’t mind hanging out with them, has actually had a pretty good time, but he just wants to go home and crawl into the bed. Maybe have a bath, he doesn’t know yet.

“Alright,” he says, dropping his knife and fork into the middle of his plate and wiping his hands off with the serviette, “I’m out. I’ll see you boys tomorrow.” 

Crow gets up to let him out, slapping him on the ass as he passes, “Catch you later, Captain.”

Jonny just nods, can’t bring himself to talk at the sudden pain blooming across his left side. 

He’s torn between walking home and catching a cab, but decides to walk when the pain refuses to dissipate. He does not want to face a cab driver when he’s unable to sit still without being in pain. He does not need those rumours circulating in the media, thank you very much. 

He curses under his breath, pulling his phone out of his pocket to text Sharpy. 

“You fucking broke my ass, you dick,” he types, angrily stabbing at the letters. 

There’s no reply by the time he gets home. He has to actively stop himself from throwing his phone at the wall as he undresses, waiting for his tub to fill up with hot water. He throws in a bath bomb he’d bought on a whim the last time he went shopping, decidedly not embarrassed about the purchase.

Once he gets his clothes off he twists around in front of the mirror, contorting himself to look at his ass. Even though he’s alone he can still feel himself blushing and, throwing a glare at the reflection in the mirror, he catches sight of a blooming bruise and digs his fingers in.

“Fucking ow,” he mutters, “I don’t know what I was expecting.”

He crawls into the bath with his phone still in his hand, careful to keep it away from the water, and twists so just the swell of his ass and the top of his thigh is above the water line. The rest of his body is hidden beneath the bubbles, and he knows that Sharpy is going to mock the ever-loving shit out of him but that’s not the point. 

The point is that Sharpy broke his ass, and Jonny is going to make him feel guilty about it, God dammit.

It takes a couple of tries to get the shot. He either only gets the effect the bomb had on his bath (artistic, sure, but does nothing to convey the amount of pain he’s in), or he maybe gets a close up of his ass when that’s not the point here (he does save the photo though, because he’s kind of proud of the way his ass looks in the shot), but then he gets the one. 

He doesn’t think about the “homoerotic connotations”, doesn’t think about why he’s so determined to show his ass to Sharpy for the second time today, just hits send. 

He leans back in the bath, enjoying the warmth of the water after practice and Sharpy’s check, enjoying the way that it takes the pressure off of his aching limbs. 

There’s still no reply when the water starts turning cold, so he grabs for his phone again. Shoots off a, “show me yours,” before he gets out of the tub. 

The thing is that everyone knows Jonathan Toews is competitive, right? Not just on the ice but everywhere else too. There are very few things he won’t do, not if the words “I dare you” or “you wouldn’t” are involved, and injuries are the same kind of thing. Sharpy checked him and Jonny got hurt, but fuck if Jonny didn’t do his best to drag Sharpy down too, to do just as much damage as was inflicted on him.

It’s an instinct he can’t kick.

He’s towelling himself off when he finally gets a reply. Smirking to himself, proud that he’s not the only overly competitive asshole playing for the team, he brings up Sharpy’s text and just. Stops. Because. Well, that’s not Sharpy. 

The photo doesn’t show a face, but Jonny knows what Sharpy looks like, okay? He’s admitted before that he could point out Sharpy’s dick in a line up of dicks, and that goes for the rest of Sharpy’s features as well. 

The photo doesn’t show a lot at all, actually, but it’s still enough. The guy’s pale and isn’t wearing a shirt, exposing a toned stomach that has Jonny questioning if Sharpy’s just fucking with him and sent a photo of one of his mates from another team.

Though, as close as Jonny is his with his teammates, both past and current, he doesn’t have any photos like this of any of them. Wouldn’t unless they were more than just teammates, more than friends. He doesn’t think Sharpy would either. 

There’s jeans slung low, a belt undone and with the fly open. Hands slipping to cover the front of the black boxer briefs, and Jonny only knows the guy’s wearing any at all because the Under Armour waistband is just inching above the jeans. 

And, that’s it. There’s no caption. There’s no explanation. Jonny stares at the photo for too long for it to be considered appropriate, locks the screen of his phone and puts it down. He glares at it for several moments, and walks away. 

He doesn’t need a shower. He’s has already had two today and then the bath, but, still, he steps into it and turns the water to cold. He closes his eyes and does not think about the photo. 

If only everyone realised his self-control wasn’t as strong as they thought it was, he might finally lose that annoying _Captain Serious_ nickname. 

***

Sharpy gets dropped off at Johnny’s Ice House the next morning in a car Jonny’s never seen before. It’s a Hummer, obnoxiously yellow, and driven by someone he doesn’t recognise. 

The rest of the team are already inside, but Jonny decided to wait it out for his A, leaning up against the door until he spots the car. Then, suddenly, he’s across the carpark, standing just inside of the gates that separate him from the fans eagerly awaiting a chance meeting, and pushing Sharpy against the Hummer. 

“What the hell was that?” He asks, narrowing his eyes. 

He’s aware of the crowd outside the carpark gates. He’s aware of the camera phones trained on him, of the way the driver of the Hummer is leaning across the front seat to ask Sharpy if he’s okay. 

“Put away those crazy eyes, Toes,” Sharpy says, not even looking intimidated for a second, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jonny hates him. Really.

“I’m talking about that photo,” Jonny stage-whispers, “you know what you did.”

Two things happen then. The first being that Sharpy raises his arms in a mock surrender, looking just as confused as Jonny feels. The second, well, the second is that the car Jonny has Sharpy pushed up against jerks forward. Jonny grabs Sharpy, pulls him away before he can get flattened or something. 

“Peeks?” Sharpy questions, walking up to the passenger door and peering across at the driver. 

Jonny doesn’t know what Sharpy sees, or what’s going on, but then Sharpy is looking from the driver to Jonny and then back to the driver. 

When he finally turns his gaze back on Jonny he’s fucking grinning. 

Jonny is filled with regret over grabbing Sharpy as soon as the car started moving.

“Hey Jon,” Sharpy gestures him over, and Jonny follows tentatively, “I think I might have forgotten to give you my new number.”

“New number?” Jonny hears himself ask, curiously watching as the driver’s face flushes red when they make eye contact. 

“Yeah,” Sharpy pulls his phone out of his pocket, and huh, that is not the same one Jonny is used to seeing, “I got a new phone. Peeks is borrowing my old one for the time being.”

“Huh,” Jonny says, “well. I’m late for practice, I’ll see you inside.” 

He gestures vaguely behind him, thinks he might even be accurately pointing toward Johnny’s Ice House, and forces himself to tell the driver, Peeks apparently, that it’s nice to meet him. 

It is not nice. Jonny wants to _die_ , but he can’t admit that. 

That would be rude.

He can hear Sharpy laughing behind him as he walks away, can hear the Hummer starting up again, driving away. 

He doesn’t look behind him. He doesn’t make eye contact with Sharpy in the locker room, or on the ice, or even when Sharpy’s daring him to. 

“I dare you to look at me,” he taunts, skating around Jonny.

It takes everything within him to not.

“Come on, man,” Sharpy says, “don’t be such a prude. Kaner told me what happened.” 

Jonny doesn’t look up, but he does ask, “Kaner? I thought his name was Peeks.”

Sharpy shrugs, “His name is Patrick,” like that answers anything. 

Jonny pushes him away, can’t keep the grin from forming when he hears Sharpy hit the ice. 

***

He’s laying face down on his bed, mentally calculating what he’d have to cut out of his meal plan for the week if he had the pint of Ben & Jerry’s sitting in his freezer, when his phone goes off. He pats around the edge of his bed until he finds it, shuffles it in front of his face instead of lifting his head to make it easier. 

It’s a text message from Sharpy’s old number.

Jonny frowns. 

“For what it’s worth, I thought you were sleeping with Sharpy.”

Jonny frowns, replies, “Sharpy’s with Abby.” 

“Exactly,” comes back seconds later. 

It’s quickly followed by, “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

Jonny thinks about the picture, scrolls back up to look at it again until he feels guilty. 

“You didn’t,” he replies. 

He waits a minute, can see that the message has been received and seen, but there’s still no reply. There’s no grey box, no annoying ellipses like Patrick’s typing a message, so Jonny just goes back to lying face-down on his bed.

Eventually he falls asleep without having eaten the pint of ice cream.

***

He doesn’t know what time it is when he wakes up. The sun’s still up, but it’s getting darker outside. Jonny lays in bed for a few moments, trying to psych himself up into going to the gym. 

He reaches for his phone, ready to ask Seabs or Duncs or anyone along with him. He doesn’t feel like going, but knows that if anyone else is there he’ll be trying to run laps around them. He needs that motivation right now.

Before he can do that, though, he reads the text that Patrick must’ve sent before he fell asleep. Something in his stomach tightens when he sees that it’s a picture, but is quickly disappointed when he recognises it as Sharpy. 

“I think this is yours,” the caption says. 

It’s a photo of Sharpy from the waist down. He’s wearing boxer briefs, but Jonny’s eyes don’t even linger, just looks for the point of the photo. 

There’s a pretty expansive bruise forming on the inside of Sharpy’s leg, just above his knee, and Jonny fights between feeling guilty and accomplished.

“He deserved it,” Jonny shoots back.

Again, the reply is almost instantaneous, “yeah.” 

Jonny flicks open Seabs’ contact information, sends a message asking if he wants to hit the gym, and then flicks back over to Pat’s.

“I liked yours better, though,” he sends, feeling anxious. 

He’s disappointed when his text tone rings, just an affirmation from Seabs asking for the when and where, asking if it’s okay if Duncs come to.

He’s halfway through typing up, backspacing and retyping an apology when Patrick replies. 

“Yeah? I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” 

Jonny laughs, scrolling back up to the first image of his ass he thought he’d been sending to Sharpy. The caption, a bold “show me yours” that wasn’t intended the way Patrick took it. 

Still, he has no regrets. 

Not even when, seconds later, another text comes through. 

“I dare you.”

He grins, “You’re on.”

And, well, it doesn’t take him too long to go through his camera roll and find the other picture he’d taken in the bath.


End file.
